Fiction

Horses

Horses

I took care of Johnny’s horses. Johnny cared about them, and so he’d come and watch me, and it wasn’t possible for me not to imagine that he cared for me too. In part, at least, because we shared an object of affection. Perhaps love is always a three way—but the third must be an object. When another subject enters, that’s when the trouble . . . Of course horses are both . . .  

Not Drinking with Erin

Not Drinking with Erin

Erin had been to Bob Ellis's Christmas party five years running.  Eric had been there either two or three out of the last five years.  He couldn't remember which. He might have been there the year before, but he couldn't be sure.  He thought he might have been there, but there was no way of telling.  It was a year ago.  Or longer, if he hadn't actually been there. Which he wasn't sure he had.

Hocus-Pocus

Hocus-Pocus

He points an index finger in her face. "The house will be a great investment," says Dex. "Every penny we put in we'll get out. Beatrice looks at him. Blinks. It's Saturday morning. They're sitting in the coffee shop, eating bagels, sipping coffee. A block around the corner is the supermarket. Two blocks over is the dry cleaner. Beatrice could walk the neighborhood blindfolded. A map of every street and avenue is sketched in her brain.

Goddess

Goddess

Back in the summer of 09’ my roommate Carlos dated this vegan alternatina named Lalí, a name I couldn’t stand because it was like something out of a play written by a well-intentioned white guy, probably about the early Afro-Colombians coming face-to-face with Spanish Colonists on some yellow-sanded beach. When he first started bringing her up out of left field—at the gym while I spotted him, in our dorm lounge as we played Super Smash Bros.—I knew that there had to be a reason.

Review of a Serial Ejaculator: Subway Line 7 and the Antonin Drake Method

Review of a Serial Ejaculator: Subway Line 7 and the Antonin Drake Method

Winter usually presents the most desperate moments for an exhibitionist. The cold air turns us into exclusive affairs. We linger alone, rush up the stairs apart from our friends, and because it’s always too chilly to stop and talk, we cover our eyes and ears and lips in thick cloth, cotton or polyester, anything at all to obstruct language and hearsay and hot air.